The darkest places in Hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis. The sad souls of those who lived without blame and without praise.
Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins
Chapter 6: Pride
"Beautiful, aren't they?"
He murmured agreement – he'd never been one for stargazing. At home, light pollution prevented any stars bar those of the 'Verse being seen. Out here, on Sentinel, a cluster of stars illuminated the void. But they were small dots on an empty canvass. Not something he could fall in love with. Not when love felt a lot closer to home right now.
"Do you think we can see Sol from here, Dante?" she asked, looking at him.
"Possibly. It's forty light years away. Our own backyard in the greater scheme of things."
"Hmm." She entwined her arm with his. "People say Blue Sun is a long way away. But out here…" She chuckled. "Sorry. I'm sounding like a love-struck puppy."
"I don't mind." He smiled at her. "I love dogs."
She blinked at him.
"Actually, I mean…" He fought the urge to slap himself on the forehead. And failed to stop the sad smile that came to his lips. "What I mean to say is…thank you."
"For what?"
The smile became less sad as he looked at her. Her skin, her eyes, her hair and lips. The way she smiled at him in turn. The way just being near her made his body ache. The way he felt even when he thought about her. How he-
"Sir, you have a message."
"Thank you," he repeated. "For everything."
He put an arm over her shoulder. Drawing her close to him. Feeling his chest heave as hers lay against his.
"Sir?"
As she lay her head on his shoulder. As she whispered, "you're welcome."
As his body ached more than any wound or misstep he had suffered. As the bullet missed his head, and entered his heart. Breaking it, for what he had now. And how it could never last.
"Sir, are you awake?"
As they drew closer as well. As they turned from the light of the stars. As their own light grew, as they embraced. Their bodies nova. The universe in orbit. Bodies and minds as one, as spirits shone bright. Out of the mind of anything else.
"Sir?"
And then he woke up.
"Sir!"
With a grunt, the Operative awoke from slumber's embrace. His face was to his pillow, his bare back pointing up to the roof of his cabin, his room's only source of illumination being the glow of his desk chrono – 02:22, shipboard time. The only sound the hum of the engines. And the voice of Ensign Carmelito over his room's comm. device.
"Sir, I'm sorry to wake you, but-"
With another grunt, the Operative swung his arm over and hit the "acknowledge" button. "I'm here," he murmured, still keeping his eyes closed.
"Message from Alliance High Command Sir. Real-time. Eyes only."
The Operative grunted again. Eyes only. Pathetic. He was the commander of the IAV Alfred – once the command ship of General Wilkins, officially retired in 2516, unofficially transferred to his personal command a few months prior. There wasn't a single man or woman on the vessel who he couldn't trust with an "eyes only" briefing.
"Patch it through to CIC. Inform HIGHCOM that I'll be there in five."
But clearly the Alliance felt otherwise.
"Yes Sir. Out."
The radio crackled off and the Operative continued to lie on his bed. Sleep. His mind wanted it, his body wanted it, his spirit, if such a thing existed, wanted it. But despite that, he swung his legs over to the side of the bed and sat up. If dreams were delusions, he was certainly suffering from them he reflected. As he put on his uniform, he cast his mind back to the dream. To that woman. He'd never seen her before. But there was something familiar about her as well. Like he'd dreamt of her in another 'delusion.' Or had maybe caught her eye when he'd had to blend into a crowd on one of his missions. Or maybe he was just that tired.
No rest for the wicked.
He fastened the last buttons of his shirt and walked to the door. With a hiss, it opened.
He'd forgotten about the dream by the time it closed.
"We lost contact with our contractors above Sturges," said General Mutimbuzi. "A follow-up team identified their remains."
"Cause of death?"
"Grav drive exhaust. You can imagine the results."
"Vividly."
The Operative looked up at the screen display of his contact. A cup of instant coffee had greeted him on the way to CIC, and the general's words had eliminated any remaining desire for sleep. Because while the general hadn't stated as much yet, he knew what was coming – a mission. It was his only reason for existing. Ever since he had become an Operative. Since his memories of his past life had been removed when he departed Sentinel for Londinium. He had no name, no rank, he lived in the moment. And like so many times, the moment called to him.
"This was the third attempt to retrieve the target," the general continued. "The first was from Agent Lawrence Dobson. We lost contact with him after he traced the target to a ship that launched off Persephone eight months ago. The second was a bounty hunter we employed by the name of Jubal Early – he disappeared without a trace as well.
"And your contractors," the Operative said. "What about them?"
"They took over from Dobson and Early left off. They nearly caught up with the target on Ariel." The general scowled. "But life isn't like horseshoes. 'Nearly' doesn't count."
The Operative smirked. 'Nearly' never did.
"And so," Mutimbuzi continued, "their work falls to you. I must warn you, that the nature of this mission is highly confidential, even by your standards. I can only-"
"I accept," the Operative said.
The general nodded. "Transmitting assignment now. Good luck."
The terminal in front of him hummed. A moment later, it showed a profile of "the target" in the form of a still-picture. It showed a young girl – late teens, he estimated. Brown eyes, lanky brown hair…she might have been considered attractive, if not for her gaze. Like she was out of focus, operating on an entirely different wavelength. He frowned – there was something…off, about her, he reflected. It reminded him of autism. Luckily the mission brief on the back was more forthcoming.
Name: River Tam
Gender: Female
DOB: 2500/10/19
Social Control #: 149,092,015,121,012
Daughter of Regan and Gabriel Tam, born on Osiris. Alpha-level subject at Psi-Zero. Kidnapped from facility by Simon Tam on September 14, 2517.
Extraction: Alpha Priority. Termination position granted, under proviso of large resort. Any harm to subject must be accounted for, under the tenets of Article 11 of the Alliance Asset Extraction Charter, ratified 2499.
Note: Subject possesses telepathic abilities, and telekinetically-augmented physical prowess, augmented through sub-sensory training simulations and brain modification. Genius-level IQ; suspected mental instability (paranoia, psychosis, schizophrenia). Approach with extreme caution.
The Operative frowned. A psychic. He'd never hunted a psychic before, and to his knowledge, no one had. Psychics were either two types of people – those like Kalista, and living weapons of death, or, like so many, just plain dead. And the frown deepened as the second photo was printed out. This time depicting a man – black haired, strong jawed, well dressed, radiating confidence that spoke of a strong education and upbringing. The type of person he'd assassinate if they were abusing a position of power. And not the type of person he'd be hunting across the 'Verse. Though as he turned to the back, the brief said otherwise.
Name: Simon Tam
Gender: Male
DOB: 2490/11/06
Social Control #: 19,602,319,778,289
Son of Regan and Gabriel Tam, born on Osiris. Resident trauma surgeon at St. Archew Hospital, Osiris, after graduating in top 3% of MedAcad. Suspected affiliation with underground rebel group, Freiheits Jetzt ("Freedom Now"). Group suspected of involvement with extraction of River Tam. Last sighted at Evesdown Docks, Persephone. Current whereabouts unknown.
Extraction: Beta Priority. Permission to terminate granted.
A bit shorter this time, but the Operative understood what the Alliance wanted. They didn't care if Simon Tam lived or died. But he also understood that his death would be regrettable. And it also stood to reason that he'd still be in the company of his sister. Commendable, in a way. But an enemy of the Alliance. Like his sister, a liability. And unlike his sister, no doubt had plenty of public information available on him.
Which made him raise an eyebrow when he saw the third target be given to him.
A week later, the Operative was in the archive of Psi-Zero, viewing a holo-record dated September 14, 2517. It was a form of technology where he could enter a 3D simulation of the event as recorded by the security cameras, any blind spots covered by holographic recreations of the surroundings and events. Not that there was any need for that in this case – he watched as River Tam was bound in a dream chair, screaming, courtesy of the injector needles that had been inserted into her cranium to simulate different areas of her brain. An advanced form of dreamscape technology, allowing direct manipulation of the sensory input, and even the thought process itself. All without the need of another psychic.
"She's dreaming," a technician said.
"Nightmare?" asked another.
"Off the charts," said the first one. "Scary monsters."
"Let's amp it up," said the third of the four men. The only actual scientist present. "Delcium eight-drop."
The technicians obliged, and the man turned to look at the fourth individual present in the room, not including River Tam herself. The scientist's name was Dr Philbert Mathias – PhD in psychology, leading theorist on mental stimulation, and one of the chief researchers in the Alliance's psychic program. He looked healthy, confident, and quite at ease in experimenting on a girl who'd come to the Academy at the age of fourteen. And had been experimented on over the three years she'd been here.
"See, most of our best work is done while they're asleep," Mathias said to the inspector – the fourth one in the room, and the only one who hadn't said a word so far. "We can monitor and direct their subconsciousness, implant suggestions…"
Tam convulsed, which caused the inspector's eyes to widen slightly. Smiling gently, Mathias kept talking. "It's a little startling to see, but the results are spectacular. Especially in this case. River Tam is our star pupil."
"I've heard that," the inspector murmured.
The Operative smirked. He wondered what Kalista would say if she were here, after listening to that particular titbit of information. And also wondered what was going through "the inspector's" mind. Or more specifically, the mind of Simon Tam, having assumed the identity of Sean Green; a liaison between the Alliance parliament and the facility, long since confirmed dead at the hands of Freiheits Jetzt. Having to play the cold, unfeeling bureaucrat, while his sister was tortured before him as he fiddled with a small eagle baton, no larger than a paperweight.
"She'll be ideal for defence deployment," Mathias said. "Even with the side effects."
"Tell me about them," Simon murmured.
The Operative smirked again – straight to the point. Admirable.
"Well, obviously she's unstable," Mathias said. The Operative watched the hologram walk over to a flatscreen display of River's brain, the display not having any indication of how damaged her mind was. "The neural stripping gives them heightened cognitive reception, but it does tend to fragment their own reality matrix. It manifests as borderline schizophrenia, which-"
"What use do we have for a psychic if she's insane?"
River began letting out yelps. And Mathias walked over.
"She's not just a psychic," he said. "With the right trigger this girl is a living weapon. Not to mention the security potential of someone who can read minds."
The yelps continued. And Mathias continued.
"She has her lucid periods. We're hoping to improve on the…"
He trailed off. And the Operative put a hand to his chin. This wasn't the first time he'd seen the record. But he wanted to be thorough. And this was the moment when Mathias finally began to catch on. And when he'd committed his greatest error. His greatest sin.
"I'm sorry sir, but I have to ask, is there a reason for this inspection?"
"Am I making you nervous?" Tam asked.
"Key members of parliament have personally observed the subject," Mathias said hurriedly. I was told the Alliance's support for the project was unanimous. The demonstration of her powers-"
"How is she physically?" Tam interrupted.
The Operative observed a change in Mathias's demeanour. It was slight, but still there. He was far more enthusiastic.
"Like nothing we've seen." He looked at his data pad. "All our subjects are conditioned for combat, but River – she's a creature of extraordinary grace."
"Yes," mused Tam. "She always did love to dance."
The Operative watched as Mathias's face shifted again, from confidence to confusion. And then watched it go blank as Tam suddenly knelt down, hit the butt of the baton, and watched as the eagle head went shooting upwards, letting out an energy wave that knocked out all the other men. A highly advanced type of bouncing betty. And it was only because of how low he and River were in the room in comparison to the wave's height from the ground that they were spared its effects.
The Operative watched as Tam tried to get his sister awake, and failed. Walking over to the door as he took off his uniform, he-
"Simon."
Span around to look at his sister. Even having watched her open her eyes and follow her brother, the Operative was impressed with her silence.
"They know you've come."
And her perception, even after recovering from a dose of "scary monsters." Because what neither of the Tams knew was that a silent alarm had been triggered as the Academy's security staff had watched all of this unfold. But they nonetheless made their way out swiftly into the main corridor. As some doctors neared, and Tam ordered his sister to find a hiding place. As the younger Tam climbed onto some lab equipment to the corridor's ceiling, spread out her legs, and supported her weight, clinging onto a sprinkler for additional support.
Extraordinary grace.
It wasn't long before the Tams had reached the entrance hatch to one of the Academy's ventilation shafts. A security team arrived, and fired a laser round at the glass door, but couldn't get through. But as they hammered against the door, as the glass began to shatter, that was set to change.
It was all for nought though – the Operative knew how this ended. A ship appeared above the shaft and let down a platform for the Tams to climb onto, in which they both obliged. With the security team coming at them from the side, and a laser grid coming at them from below, they didn't need any motivation. And, as the story always ended, the platform carried them upwards. Away from the lasers. Away from the grunts. Away from-
"Stop." The Operative said. The recording halted.
"Backtrack."
The simulation began running backwards. The lasers receded. The glass's cracks disappeared.
"Stop."
To the casual observer, it was an inconspicuous point in the recording, showing the faces of both the Tams – Simon looking down at his sister, River looking directly into a security camera. But as he stepped out of the simulation into the records room, and looked at the frozen image from the outside, the Operative knew that this was all he needed. He'd seen River Tam in action. And perhaps just as importantly, seen her brother as well.
"Excuse me!" came a voice.
And maybe, for someone, he'd seen too much. Because as he looked to the records room, he saw three men and one woman storming towards him.
"No one is allowed in the records room without my express permission."
The Operative fought back a smile – he didn't know, nor care, who three of these people were. But the fourth was Doctor Philbert Mathias. Eight months older than he'd been in the hologram, now looking as haggard and tired as if eight years had passed instead. He wasn't wearing his lab coat this time, just a simple white shirt and black tie. A more formal match to the Operative's plain blue clothing, hiding his uniform.
"Forgive me," the Operative said as Mathias and his flunkies surrounded him. "But I prefer to see the event alone. Without bias."
"I need to see your clearance," Mathias said indignantly.
"And you are right to insist." The Operative reached for a hand scanner. "I know you've had security problems here."
An automated voice declared that he had authorized and full access. And Mathias's tone turned to one of respect.
"Apologies," he said "An Operative of the parliament will of course have full cooperation."
The Operative glanced at Mathias's flunkies. They didn't look at ease. But they gave him some space at least. And Mathias as well, as he looked at the scanner's display.
"I'm not sure what…I'm not seeing any listing of rank or name."
"I have neither," the Operative said. "Like this facility, I don't exist." He looked back at the hologram. "Let's talk about the Tams."
Mathias paused before he spoke. "I assume you've scanned the status logs."
"River was your greatest success. A prodigy. A phenomenon. Until her brother walked in here and took her from you."
"It's not quite so simple," Mathias said.
"I'm well aware of that."
"There's no way I could of-"
"No, no," the Operative said reassuringly. "Of course. The boy spent his entire fortune developing the contacts needed to infiltrate this place."
Mathias was warming up the blame game, now that it wasn't directed at him. "Gave up a brilliant future in medicine as well," he added. "It's madness."
"Madness?" The Operative smiled, and gestured to the hologram of Simon Tam before walking over to it. "Have you looked at this scan carefully, Doctor? On his face?
He took another look himself. Simon Tam, looking down at his sister in concern as the platform rose. Not at the laser grid, or the security team, or their escape ship. All his attention was on his sibling.
"It's love, in point of fact," the Operative said. "Something a good deal more dangerous."
He looked back at Mathias, the unease on his face as visible as a supernova. Even his goons looked off centre. And the woman at the back, likely his secretary…well, she was hardly relevant right now.
"Why are you here?" Mathias asked softly.
"Because the situation is even less simple then you think." The Operative walked across the room and looked back at Mathias. "Do you know what your sin is, Doctor?"
Mathias tried to speak, but the Operative interrupted him.
"It's pride."
Mathias clearly didn't understand. So on that note, the Operative pressed a button on the nearby console, one that was keyed to a specific section of the recording. Back to where Mathias was informing Tam about his sister. Some very specific things. All eyes turned to the holographic display.
"Key members of parliament have personally observed the subject," said the hologram. "I was told the Alliance's support-"
The recording blinked out and was replaced with the still-image of the Tams. And the Operative spoke.
"Key members of parliament," he said slowly. "Key. The minds behind every diplomatic, military, and covert operation in the Alliance, and you put them in a room with a psychic."
Finally, Mathias appeared to understand. Finally, he appeared to be aware of his sin.
"She was…she read cards, nothing more."
Even as he tried to hide it. "It's come to our attention that River became much more unstable, more…disturbed after you showed her off to parliament." The Operative took a step towards the doctor. "Did she read something terrible in those cards?"
Quickly, Mathias said, "If there was some classified information that she…she never spoke of it. I don't know what it is!"
"Nor do I. And judging by her deteriorating mental state, I'd say we're both better off. Secrets are not my concern. Keeping them is."
Mathias continued to babble. "Whatever secrets she might have accidentally gleaned...it's probable that she doesn't even know she knows them. That they're buried beneath layers of psychosis."
The Operative rolled his eyes – the man was pathetic. Not that any of his words could have saved him, but he'd hoped that the Alliance's best and brightest would have more backbone. He started walking. "You know, in certain older, civilized cultures, when men failed as entirely as you have, they'd throw themselves on their swords."
He began packing recordings pending to Tam into his briefcase. And Mathias continued to babble.
"Well, unfortunately I forgot to bring a sword to-"
The Operative drew out his blade from the briefcase. The weapon he'd had since training. The weapon he'd used to kill all manner of enemies to the Alliance. Balancing it along his arm, he turned to Mathias. Who, for the first time, was showing actual fear. Even as he tried to hide it.
"I would put that down right now if I were you, before-"
"Would you be killed in your sleep like an ailing pet?"
Mathias nodded to his flunkies. They both moved towards the Operative. In a single swing, the Operative cut the throat of one, and impaled the other. A shame, really. They weren't his targets. But he was fed up with this drivel, and he'd seen all he needed to see. Glancing at Mathias, now running for his life, he frowned – the third target that General Mutimbuzi had given him was trying to escape.
With superhuman speed, the Operative dashed after the doctor, plunging his fingers into his back with just as superhuman strength. The nerve strike, it was called – Mathias screamed as the Operative struck the nerve cluster at the bottom of his back. In an instant, Philbert Mathias was paralysed. Just standing there, unable to move. An instant later, the Operative had taken a crouching position, resting the butt of his sword on the ground, the blade facing upwards. Right up to where Mathias was about to fall. Very soon, the only person left alive in the room would be himself, as the female assistant was rushing for the exit.
"Young miss," the Operative called out, and she glanced at him in terror. "I'll need all the logs on behavioural modification triggers. We'll have to reach out to River Tam and help her to come back to us. No matter how far out Simon has taken her, we can-"
There was the sound of steel meeting flesh, and the Operative glanced to his side. The effects of the paralysis were beginning to wear off as Mathias was able to slightly move his neck so that his eyes met the Operative's. Eyes that showed confusion. Fear. Enough to give the Operative a small sense of pity.
"This is a good death," the Operative said, as Mathias's body made its way down the blade. As the life left his eyes, as his breathing became shallower. "There's no shame in this, in a man's death. A man who's done fine works. We're making a better world. All of them, better worlds."
Mathias's eyes closed. His gasps faded. And the Operative knew his work had been done. The third target of his assignment removed.
Better worlds. Worlds without sin.
With a fluid motion the Operative freed his sword and walked back to the hologram, drawing out a cloth to clean his blade. "Young miss, I need you to go to work now," he called out. "I think I may have a long way to travel."
He heard her footsteps carry her away. Soft, submissive footsteps, that told him there'd be no trouble. So as he cleaned the last of the blood off his blade, he returned his attention to his primary target. The one staring at a security camera, and through the hologram, at him. River Tam. The greatest threat to the security and stability of the Alliance.
"Where are you hiding, little girl?" he whispered.
He got his answer three weeks later.
In order to locate River Tam, he'd needed to get a message out to her, through a delivery system that had a chance of actually working. The solution was to use the one thing seen by more people than anywhere else – advertising. Ads were everywhere across the 'Verse, and wherever Simon might have taken River, it was unlikely that she'd be able to escape the reach of human commercialism. Sooner or later, she'd come across an ad for Fruity Oaty Bars – an obnoxious little energy snack that didn't have any fruit in it whatsoever, but for some reason was enjoyed by people from the Core to the Rim. And whatever River's personal taste was, that didn't mean that she wouldn't glance at an ad for the things.
And glance at an ad she did – in a disreputable bar called the Maidenhead on the planet of Beaumonde. Standing on the bridge of the Alfred, the Operative watched the scene unfold. As River Tam, looking older and more haggard than she had in the hologram, looked up at the bar's flatscreen. As she whispered the word "Miranda."
Miranda? As in Shakespeare?
And began to attack everyone around her.
I've heard that name somewhere.
Attack them with impunity.
Ideal for defence deployment. A living weapon. The Operative smirked at the brawl – some tried to fight back, and were knocked out cold by River's blows. Others fled. Mathias wasn't lying.
There was a grace to how River fought. Even the few blows the patrons got in did nothing to slow her down. She moved faster, hit harder, was aware of her enemy's attacks before her enemies themselves were. And it only ended when she grabbed one of her foes' guns, using it to shoot a man in the shoulder, causing him to collapse. And then pointing it at another target that the security feed he'd tapped into didn't show, towards the bar's entrance. And for some reason, not firing this time.
"Eta kooram nah smech!" a voice over the recording exclaimed.
And then she collapsed unconscious, dropping the gun by her side. And the Operative frowned. The audio feed wasn't perfect, but he could recognise the voice as belonging to that of Simon Tam. And the phrase he'd uttered (Russian that translated into "this is for hens to laugh") was River's personal safe word –the counter-code to the one that he'd implanted into the bar commercial in fact. That the elder Tam and his friends had access to it made this all the more disturbing.
But he couldn't complain. He'd got a fix on River's location. And almost as interestingly, at an individual who appeared to care for her. He watched as a man walked into the security camera's field – big, muscular, strong enough to lift River up into his arms and walk off with the girl. A surprising move, considering that all the bar's other patrons were unconscious by this point in time. So, either he was a stranger with a very strong sense of compassion, or he was familiar with the girl.
"Freeze frame," the Operative said. "Employ facial recognition on male subject. Cross reference all databases."
In a microsecond, the computer had obliged. And a minute after that, the Operative found himself reading a most interesting character profile.
Name: Malcolm Reynolds
Gender: Male
DOB: 2468/09/20
Social Control #: 2
Son of a rancher, born on the planet Shadow. Bound by law five times: smuggling, tariff dodging, transporting illegal cargo; no convictions.
Captain, Independent Army, 57th Brigade. Volunteer.
Awarded Valour Commendation: Battle of Serenity Valley
The Operative looked at the text, then at the moving image of Reynolds in one of his run ins with the law as he stood for a mugshot. He looked irritated, bored, contemptuous – as if the very idea of law and order was beneath him. The Operative glanced back at the text.
The Battle of Serenity Valley. Interesting.
He knew of the battle. Everyone did. It had been the bloodiest battle of the Unification War, and the last one as well. The Independents had held the valley for seven weeks, two of them after their high command had surrendered. He hadn't been there of course, but for some reason, every time he saw or heard the words "Serenity Valley" or "Unification War," it stirred a sense of familiarity within him. Systemic of his work, he supposed. A war had been fought long ago. The bloodiest war in the history of the 'Verse. And it was up to men like him to ensure that such a conflict never occurred again.
Which was a prospect men like Malcolm Reynolds likely weren't averse towards. Because there was another interesting titbit in the data before him.
Captain of Firefly-class transport ship Serenity (2512-present)
So, not only had Malcolm Reynolds fought in the Battle of Serenity Valley, he'd even named his ship after that bloodbath as well. No wonder the Tams had found shelter with him. No wonder Dobson and those who pursued them had disappeared from the face of the 'Verse. Malcolm Reynolds had every reason to hate the Alliance. What better way to prick it in the paw than to harbour a pair of fugitives?
Well, there's plenty of better ways. Like starting a war again.
He made a mental note to send a get in touch with Interpol. If there was a chance Reynolds had met with fellow sympathizers, he wanted to know. But in the short term, he was interested in his immediate companions.
"Computer," he said. "Bring up crew manifest of starship Serenity."
The computer obliged. The Operative didn't doubt that a lot of the information was out of date – in the list of names and portraits, there certainly wasn't any mention of the Tams. But he chose the first one anyway and skimmed through the data.
First Mate Zoë Washburne, formerly Corporal Zoë Alleyne, also in the 57th. Career army. And wife of the starship's captain, Hogan Washburne.
So – big happy family that was likely harbouring a pair of fugitives among already existing criminals. But how to exploit that? Reynolds was obviously a passionate man, and one without any room for subtlety. He was bound to have some very obvious-
The Operative clicked on the last portrait. A licensed Companion named Inara Serra, who'd rented one of the Serenity's shuttles for a year, and recently ended that arrangement to teach at the new Companion Training House.
Weaknesses.
A few days later, the Operative was on the surface of Burnet – the second moon of the planet New Canaan; first planet of the Blue Sun system. As he climbed the stone steps that led to the Companion Training House, he reflected on words once spoken – that he had suspected that he would have a long way to travel. Bracing himself against the autumn chill, he concluded that his self of over three weeks prior was just as wise as the man that was here today.
The Alfred in deep orbit of the planet – he'd touched down at the training house's landing pad and walked from there. Taking in the surrounds, and admiring the structure itself – a replica of the Hindu temples found on Earth-That-Was, and found on many other worlds within 'the Verse, as mankind still clung to old idols. He quickened his pace – if he'd ever believed in anything other than Man, he couldn't remember it. God may have been real. But sin was in the here and now. Sin, he would deal with. And that involved making an appointment with Inara Serra, posing as a Mr Henri Pond – an accountant from Red Sun, come all the way out here to find spiritual awakening that may or may not involve the act of sexual intercourse. And Serra, in her benevolence, had taken up his offer. And was standing at the top of the steps he climbed.
And by God, she was beautiful. He'd expected that from the profile he'd obtained from her off the Cortex and the Companion Guild's own database, but none of that did her justice. Her red shawl blew in the wind, covering her body, yet accenting it as well. Lush black hair came down from her head – long, yet not too long. Red lips, and brown eyes that radiated not only beauty, but intelligence as well. A walking goddess. One who had, for reasons unknown, been part of Reynolds's crew for a year.
He stopped walking and saw the smile fade. Saw fear flicker in those eyes of hers. Fear that was founded of course, but she couldn't have known that.
"Mister Pond," she said courteously. "Welcome to Burnet."
He took her hand and kissed it. There was no way she could have known why he was really here.
"How was your trip?"
"Long," he said, letting go of her hand. "But well worth it, now that I behold what journey's end has brought me."
"You flatter me."
He smiled, though silently, he was kicking himself. Some compared the women of the Companions Guild to prostitutes, others to geisha; as they trained in not only lovemaking, but music, philosophy, and even martial arts, his impression leant more to the latter. And in all of that, it wouldn't surprise him if they were trained to read body language. He was here on business other than that of "spiritual awakening." And he couldn't turn down the possibility that just the way he'd moved had given him away.
"So then," he said. "When shall we begin?"
Serra smiled at him. "Soon," she said. She glanced back at the training house – maybe to plan an escape route. "But as you know, few clients visit us here. Most of the girls are not yet ready to serve the needs of body and spirit."
"But I'm not interested in those other girls." He smiled. "I'm interested in you."
"Of course. But as I mentioned, my role here is currently as teacher. So I'm afraid I have to-"
"Cut the bullshit Serra."
In another life, one he'd given up long ago, he would have jumped at the chance to bed this woman. But that life didn't exist. Serra was on to him. So the sooner he cut to the chase, the better.
"Inara Serra," he said. "My understanding is that you were onboard the starship Serenity for a year, and came here mere months ago."
"I…" She composed herself. "Yes, that's true."
"The captain's name is Malcolm Reynolds."
"Whatever you want with Mal, I can't help you."
'Mal.' How quaint. "Actually, I don't particularly care about Reynolds." He took out a picture of River Tam from his pocket. "I'm interested in this girl. I believe that she was on the ship during the same time period you were."
Serra was good. But she couldn't hide that faint flicker of recognition, and more noticeably, concern in her eyes.
"I don't know her," she said. "You have to understand, Mister Pond, that my relationship with Captain Reynolds was only a commercial venture."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. Being a Companion gave his ship a degree of credibility it might otherwise have lacked, and the ship itself allowed me to expand my client base. But we otherwise kept to ourselves." She handed the picture back to him. "If this girl was ever on the ship, I can't say. Numerous passengers came and went without us ever crossing paths."
The Operative's eyes twinkled. Oh yes, she was good. But not that good.
"And now I think you should leave," she said. "I would have been happy to help you under normal circumstances, but this deception-"
"Inara Serra, I know you know this girl. I have circumstantial evidence that you were complicit with a number of illegal ventures carried out by Captain Reynolds that includes heists, illegal salvage, and smuggling. And I know that you've lied to me over the last three minutes." The Operative took a step forward. To her credit, Serra didn't budge.
"You don't have any authority here," she said. "The Companions Guild is a body that is not required to-"
"Carte blanche, Miss Serra." He took her arm and began walking with her, near to where some trainees were playing. Laughing. Existing in innocence. "I also have a platoon of marines who are very far from home, who wouldn't mind some…spiritual awakening."
Serra looked aghast. "If you do anything-"
"So here's what you're going to do. You're going to contact Malcolm Reynolds and get him to come here. You're going to do it convincingly. He's going to arrive, and I'm going to make him see reason. And then I'm going to leave with River Tam, after which you forget that we ever crossed paths."
He tightened his grip on her arm, and she winced. And even more so when he gestured to the girls.
"And if you don't do these things, life here for you and your students is going to become very, very uncomfortable." The grip loosened. "Do you understand?"
Serra's gaze lingered on the girls before meeting his own. Her poise was perfect. Her eyes, and that slight tremor in her throat, was not.
"Yes," she whispered.
Serra had swallowed her pride and done everything he'd asked. The Alfred had remained in orbit, and marines had been stationed in the perimeter of the establishment. The Companion instructors had been resentful, and the students had been fearful. But reminding them that the marines had guns and a weapon of another kind between their legs had kept them in check. The Operative had no fear that they'd not toe the line. If anything, he was more afraid of Serra stepping out of turn. She was like a chameleon – able to blend in to suit the needs of her prey. Whether it be to educate them, please them through physical contact, or for all he knew, kill them.
But she'd done as he asked – she'd contacted Reynolds through real-time communication. Told him about bandits, and payment, and had given a passable impression that it was genuine. The Operative didn't know what their dynamic was. But Serra had spoken her words clearly. If Reynolds didn't arrive, he couldn't blame her. Not too much anyway.
But arrive he had. The Alfred had alerted him to the arrival of Serenity in the moon's orbit. Located on the other side of the planet, it had tracked Serenity's pulse beacon into the planet's atmosphere. He'd ordered them to hold fire, and had waited in Serra's quarters. Reynolds would come. He had sharpshooters in the training house grounds that would relay his movements. Once they drew line of sight, Reynolds would be his. And through him, the Tams.
From an alcove linked to her quarters, Operative watched Serra kneel in front of a Buddha statue, lightning some incense sticks. Generating a sweet smell that he wasn't keen on appreciating. Looking out the window of the chambers, he saw a line of young trainees filing by in robes, with red shawls over their heads. Most were small, though he noted that the one in the back was a bit larger. The Operative had seen several such processions since his arrival here a day ago, and he'd paid them no mind. They were irrelevant to his mission.
But then the large one in the back broke off and came into Serra's chambers, kneeling down beside her.
"Dear Buddha, please send me a pony, and a plastic rocket, and-"
"Mal!"
The Operative had to admit to being both surprised and amused – two states of affairs he rarely encountered in himself. There was a word in a long dead language that came to mind: "chutzpah." For Reynolds to actually disguise himself so ludicrously, and to actually get this far…
"What are you doing here?" Serra asked frantically.
"You invited me," Reynolds answered.
"I never thought for a second you'd be stupid enough to come!"
Neither did I, the Operative reflected, smiling as he did so. He'd come to understand Reynolds's true psychosis by studying his file, but this showed him previously unrealized depths.
Still petulant, Reynolds said, "well that makes you kind of a tease, doesn't it?"
"You knew my invitation wasn't on the level." Serra got to her feet and began pacing. Just as Reynolds removed the shawl of his robes.
"Which led me to the conclusion that you must be in some kind of trouble."
"I'm fine," Serra said unconvincingly. "I'm…giddy."
"For a woman schooled in telling men what they wanna hear, you ain't much of a liar."
"Mal, you cannot handle this man."
Taking that as a good cue, the Operative entered from his vantage point in the next room. Before him stood Serra. And below her, Malcolm Reynolds. Former hero of the Independents, now hero of anyone who aspired to mimic the appearance of the opposite sex.
Yet he paused as Reynold's gaze met his. Physically, he was identical to his profile picture. Yet the mugshot hadn't done Reynolds justice. There was a…confidence about him, the Operative reflected. That he'd seen everything the universe could throw at him, to the point where he was no longer fazed. "Scoundrel" was a term that came to mind, but it wasn't that accurate. The Operative had dealt with scoundrels, smugglers, and vagabonds before. There was something else about Reynolds. Something of a…soldier. Buried deep down, waiting for the right opportunity to surface.
Nonetheless, he spoke. "I have to say, I'm impressed that you would come for her yourself. And that you would make it this far in that outfit."
Reynolds stood up. "I can be very graceful when I need to."
And the swagger of a scoundrel echoed in his voice. "I've no doubt."
Serra picked up another incense stick and put it among the others , though the Operative would have thought that the ones she'd had were sufficient. Reynolds shed his absurd disguise and asked her what she was doing.
"I'm praying for you Mal."
The Operative chuckled. "That's very thoughtful. But I mean it when I say you're not in any danger."
"Speak your piece." Reynolds spoke as if he were in charge, which the Operative supposed was natural for a captain and former sergeant.
"I think you're beginning to understand how dangerous River Tam is."
Reynolds shrugged. "She is a mite unpredictable. Mood swings, of a sort."
"It's worse than you know."
"It usually is."
"That girl will rain destruction on you and your ship. She's an albatross, captain."
"Way I remember it, albatross was a ship's good luck till some idiot killed it." Reynolds glanced at Serra. "Yes, I've read a poem. Try not to faint."
The Operative nodded, conceding the point to Reynolds. "I've seen your war record. I know how you must feel about the Alliance."
"You really don't."
Reynold's tone had changed again. The scoundrel was gone. The soldier was there, if only momentarily. And his voice carried his wounds, even if his body no longer did.
"Fair to say," the Operative once again conceded. "But I have to hope you understand that you can't beat us."
"I got no need to beat you. I just wanna go my way."
The rallying cry of the Independents. "And you can do that. Once you let me take River Tam back home."
As the Operative moved around the room, he noted that Reynolds moved with him, always making sure to keep some difference between his foe and Serra. It was almost touching.
"No, no," Reynolds said, smiling, and as his voice changed, any notion of him being the noble knight went with it. "You're working this deal all crabbed. You've got to open with payment."
"That is a trap," the Operative said. "I offer money, you'll play the man of honour and take umbrage. I ask you to do what's right, you'll play the brigand." He began walking again. "I've no stomach for games; I already know you'll not see reason."
"Alliance wanted to show me reason, they shouldn't have sent an assassin."
The Operative stopped. Once more, Reynolds was using his "soldier voice." And he remained silent. There was only one way this could go, and he'd known that from the beginning, even if he'd hopes otherwise. "I have a warship in deep orbit, Captain. We locked onto Serenity's pulse beacon the moment you hit atmo. I can speak a word and send a missile to that exact location inside of three minutes. "
Reynolds pulled a small rectangular device out of his pocket. "You do that, best make peace with your dear and fluffy lord."
He tossed the gizmo to the Operative who caught it. "Pulse beacon," he sighed. Reynolds was still determined to unnecessarily complicate this.
"Advice from an old tracker," Reynolds said. "You wanna find someone, use your eyes."
"How long do you really think you can run from us?"
"I never credited the Alliance with an overabundance of brains. And if you're the best they've got-"
"Captain Reynolds, I should tell you so that you don't waste your time: you can't make me angry."
Serra rolled her eyes. "Oh please. Just spend an hour with him."
Reynolds shot her a look. And if not for the circumstances, the Operative would have found that amusing. "I need her, Captain. River is my purpose and I will gather her to me. The brother as well. Whatever else happens is incidental in the greater scheme."
"Why is it that the greater scheme always makes everything not that great?"
The Operative put the pulse beacon aside and began to take a seat. "I want to resolve this like civilized men. I'm not threatening you, I'm unarmed-"
"Good."
With a quick draw, Reynolds pulled out a revolver and shot the Operative right in the chest. Both the chair and its occupant toppled over.
So predictable.
He'd been prepared for this. As he climbed to his feet, he saw Reynolds grab Serra's arm and begin leading her out of the chamber. He put a stop to that as he grabbed Reynolds in a headlock.
"I am of course wearing full body armour, I am not a moron!"
He then tossed Reynolds against a wall, and used the momentum of the toss to block a blow from Serra. Within seconds he'd kicked her to the ground. There'd been strength and skill in her attack, but Companion training in martial arts was but one of many they had to spread themselves over. His skill in the fist and sword had been nurtured over years. And against much deadlier opponents.
Reynolds reached for his gun again. The Operative knocked it out of his hands, and continued to pummel him, Reynolds's back against the wall. He launched a clumsy strike of his own that the Operative easily countered, made some blows of his own, and then threw him aside. The Operative walked over, wiping away some sweat from his brow. And slowly, and shakily, Reynolds got to his feet. His former bravado was gone. Blood trickled from his nose.
"No backup?" Reynolds asked. He was going for the lost bravado, instead he sounded breathless. "We're making an awful ruckus."
"They'll come when they're needed."
"I'd start whistling."
"Captain, what do you think is going to happen here?"
Reynolds responded with a clumsy attack that the Operative saw coming three seconds before the captain even moved. He easily parried the blow, and before long, had Reynolds in a headlock. This time though, Reynolds managed to pry his arm away, and get in some blows of his own. But the Operative responded in kind – Reynolds's strength was running out, and the attacks were slower and weaker than they otherwise would be. He, on the other time, had yet to exert himself.
So even as Reynolds slammed into him, sending them towards Serra's bed, he didn't care. Nor did he mind as Reynolds grabbed the bed curtains, wrapped them around his head, and hit it again and again. He broke free, and let out a quick succession of attacks that sent Reynolds sprawling. Serra rose and performed a kick attack, but he again parried her blow, and again sent her slamming against the wall. And yet again, Reynolds tried to be the white knight. And again failed, as the Operative parried every blow and brought the captain against his outstretched arm. Reynolds fell to the ground with a thud. Alive, but beaten.
The Operative glanced at Serra – she was faring better, but she wasn't ready to rise yet. And unlike Reynolds, who was struggling to regain his bearings, she at least had the sanity to realize how outmatched she was. And the Operative shook his head – he could have killed both of them by now. This time wasting had to end.
"Nothing here is what it seems," the Operative said as he walked back to the alcove. He opened his briefcase and removed his sword. "He's not the plucky hero." He walked back into the chamber, sword at the ready, passing by the Buddha statue. "The Alliance isn't some evil empire. This is not the grand arena."
"And that's not incense," Serra said.
The Operative glanced at the incense sticks. One of them was burning with greater speed than incense generally did. Rather like a fuse.
What the-
Before he could react, the Operative felt like a giant fist had punched him in the stomach, sending him flying towards the doorway. A blinding white light filled his eyes. The ringing of a thousand bells filled his ears.
And then he passed out.
I should have kicked her harder.
It was the first thought to enter his mind as he began to return to the world of the living. Of the awake. Of those not suffering from the effects of a flash grenade, and those not lying on the ground of a Companion's quarters. And certainly not those looking up in a daze at four marines, no doubt having been drawn to the room by the sound of the explosion.
"Sir, what happened?"
"Just a flash bomb." He gestured groggily towards the door. "Go! Go!"
The marines obliged, and the Operative closed his eyes. He'd seen Serra as nothing more than a means to an end – not a potential threat. Now she and her white knight were out the door, no doubt trying to get back to Serenity. Which, thanks to Reynolds's stunt with the pulse beacon, he could no longer track.
The Operative rose to his feet and drew out a comm. unit from his pocket, which he slotted over his ear. Radio chatter filled the line – that a shuttle had just taken off and was moving upwards at escape velocity. No doubt the ship Reynolds had come in, and not Serenity. Which was God knew where right now. Even if it was in orbit of Burnet, that was a lot of atmosphere to cover.
"All teams, form up," the Operative said. "Meet me at the training house entrance."
Mistakes had been made, he reflected, as he put his sword back in his briefcase. All he could do right now was to salvage the situation, and rectify them. Quickly.
And, if necessarily, painfully.
For the first time, the Operative interfered with the training house beyond his use of Serra, but only insofar as asking for a cup of tea. A request which the terrified superintendent had provided. And now, he was at the house entrance, looking over the forests of Burnet, as were the marines at his side. Bravo Team had confirmed that they'd made it to the shuttle before Reynolds had, but that hadn't stopped them from failing to keep Reynolds and Serra from lifting off and heading into orbit.
This is ridiculous, he thought. This should have ended already. He activated his comm. and contacted Carmelito, who was back on the Alfred.
"Talk to me."
"Sir, we can't find the Serenity. Its pulse-"
"Forget the pulse beacon," he said. "There must be another way to track the ship. Get a read on the navsat. It's a registered transport, you must be able to locate-"
"Sir?"
"Yes, have you found a navsat trajectory?" The Operative rose the teacup to his lips.
Carmelito hesitated. "Sir, we found seven."
And the tea never made it to its destination. Sighing, the Operative took a seat. He had a headache coming on. And it wasn't just due to the flashbang.
"Sir, should we-"
"Yes. I'll be up there soon."
The Operative took off his comm. unit and took a sip of the tea. It was warm and bitter. Not unlike how he was feeling.
He trusted Carmelito to be able to track down the navsats. But that would take time, and most likely the Serenity would be out of range before they identified it. This mission had turned into a disaster, and if anything, he was in a worse position than he'd been in when it started. Because not only did he have no idea where Serenity would flee to, but now its captain knew he was being pursued.
The Operative took another sip of the tea and closed his eyes. I should have killed him. Serra. The Tams. This should have been over by now.
And he could only blame himself. And as he felt the autumn breeze, as a bitter taste danced in his throat, he was reminded of words he had uttered less than a month ago.
"Do you know what your sin is, Doctor? It's pride."
Mathias had died for his sin. Yet in letting Reynolds get away, he was now no better. Pride had blinded him, made him overconfident. Pride had cost him the element of surprise. Thanks to his pride, Reynolds and the Tams were on their way into the Black.
The Operative finished his tea and took a breath. Pride had become his sin. He, like Mathias, had failed the Alliance.
He could never let that happen again.
A/N
So, now we're in movie territory. It was intended from the outset that the final two chapters of the story cover the timeframe of Serenity, but per the decision to give chapters 1-5 an ongoing narrative, more of that had to be reflected here. What was also reflected was the novelization of Serenity itself. Not a novelization that I'm that fond of, but because of the sequences that slip into the Operative's POV, some sequences were taken verbatim. As mentioned earlier, generally trying to stick as close to canon as possible.
One exception to this was the Mathias section, which is where within the Firefly storyline things get iffy. Taking the movie by itself, while the Operative killing Mathias is effectively characterization (e.g. the saying that "actions define a character"), it is a bit headscratching that the Alliance would order Mathias killed at all. The Alliance can do some heinous things, but it's not at the level of 'stupid evil.' There's the chance the Operative made the decision to kill Mathias on his own, but again, makes little sense. The novelization does offer some insight into this in that it claims that the Alliance is shutting down its psychic program, in which case, it would make sense that Mathias could be seen as a liability. However, two problems. One, the novelization appears to be based off an earlier version of the screenplay, and two, it doesn't gel with Leaves on the Wind, which shows the psychic program being alive and well, and, Kalista notwithstanding, shows that it's got psychic soldiers under its control without issue. You could argue that the Alliance simply decided to reactivate the program after the broadwave, but IMO, the simpler explanation that the novelization is in error in this case. As such, incorporated elements of it, but left in the extra lines and context.